


1990 Plymouth Voyager

by Marginson



Series: 1990 Plymouth Voyager [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marginson/pseuds/Marginson
Summary: Driving a stolen old car through the desert, Flint tries to save the life of a man he barely knows after a robbery goes terribly wrong.





	1990 Plymouth Voyager

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mentions of bullet wounds and blood (nothing really graphic)

 

A trail of dust.

“I think the engine is gonna go before you do!” Flint yells over his shoulder to cover the hellish revving, throwing a glance at the man sprawled out in the backseat. No answer.  
He can’t see much of him, just a blur of mangled skin and shredded jeans.

And blood —  thick, dark, drying all over the tan leather of the seat.

 

* * *

 

A bullet. Not even aimed at him, really. A panicked cop who got there too soon, without backup, and who realized too late how slim his chances were against the six of them.  
Flint had still been clutching his shoulder when the kid had decided to be a fucking hero and thrown himself in the middle of the hall, yelling at them to run.

Four shots had echoed. The fifth had been from Flint’s gun. One dead cop.  
  
And one long, horrible cry of pain from the kid on the floor.

 

* * *

  
The sun is starting to get low on the horizon as Flint nervously checks the fuel gauge and prays that the damn thing is not actually broken. He thinks it’ll be enough. He needs it to be enough.

There’s a ghastly rasp of breath from behind him and his hands freezes on the steering wheel. He frantically adjusts the rear-view mirror, wipes at the dark smudges he just made on it. Half-lidded blue eyes stare back at him.

“Where the fuck are we ?”

“Middle of the desert. Taking you somewhere safe.”

A vaguely appreciative groan, and the kid passes out again.

“Hey, stay with me! For God’s sake, stay with me, please, _please,_ ” Flint pleads, but there’s no response.

He swears under his breath and floors the accelerator.  The road is a mess, every bump making his shoulder sting, the dust and his own sweat clinging to him like a shroud.  
His wound stopped bleeding a while ago. He’s gonna be fine.  
  
They’re gonna be fine.

 

* * *

  
“Hey! Wake up!”

Flint jolts awake, gripping the wheel and slamming on the brakes reflexively. The car spins with a deafening shriek that seems to last forever. When he manages to catch his breath they’re stopped in the middle of the road, facing the wrong way, the acrid smell of burnt tires filling the air.  
The kid is gripping his shoulders strong enough that it hurts.

Well, the bullet wound might account for the pain on one side, in any case.

“What the fuck ?!” he yells, turning and getting halfway between the front seats while the kid scrambles back. And oh. There is so much blood.

“You were falling asleep,” he says defensively, and Flint can barely make out his next words. “I don’t want to die in this fucking car.”

He looks very pale, and he’s shaking badly. The tourniquet and the vague bandaging Flint had improvised just under his knee are soaked red. There are marks on his face as if he’s been clawing at it. He’s crying. He’s fucking terrified.

Flint wants to cry, too, just for a minute. He doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of wounds like that. He rubs at his eyes.

“Listen. You’re not dying in this car. You’re gonna get through this.”

He reaches for the kid, grabs his arm as gently as he can. Looks him in the eye and does his best _stern commander_ face.

“You’re gonna get through this. I swear to you. Tell me your name, kid.”

“Don’t fucking call me kid.”

Flint flinches at the outburst.

“Please. Don’t call me that,” the kid says again, his voice weak, and angry, and pleading.

“Alright.”

“I’m John Silver.”

Flint grips his arm a little tighter.

“Then I swear I’m not going to let you die, John Silver.”

He turns the car around.

 

* * *

 

Flint drives through the fog of exhaustion, biting hard on the the inside of his cheek when he feels his eyes closing.

Silver is half-sprawled on the back seats, half-leaning on the passenger seat, drifting in an out of consciousness. He wakes fully about twenty minutes later, with a sob that twists into an excruciating moan and resonates viciously in Flint’s gut. Silver bites down, hard, on the leather, punching the headrest again, and again, and again.

There is nothing Flint can say.

He reaches over the armrest and tangles his fingers in the kid’s hair, holding him lightly at the nape of his neck, rubbing at his feverish skin in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

Silver is still sobbing, still shaking, hunched over the passenger seat — but he stops punching it, and his breathing evens out slightly.

Flint drives in silence, until his outstretched arm starts cramping and he has to let go. Silver raises his head slowly, his eyes hazy as he takes in the blocky dashboard, the gigantic steering wheel, the dusty fake wood trims. He stares blankly at the cassette player.

“You couldn’t have stolen us a worse piece of shit,” he rasps.

Flint is so relieved to hear him actually speak that he doesn’t even get mad.

“Have some respect. This car is probably older that you.”

“I’m not _that_ young”

“Besides, I couldn’t very well lay you down on the passenger seat of a Z4, could I ?”

“Yeah, I’m _so glad_ to have all this space to enjoy the last road trip of my fucking life.”

Flint shuts up. There’s ice cold guilt pooling silently in his stomach and dripping down the back of his neck. He does not understand where it comes from exactly — it’s not as if it’s the first time he’s seen something like this.  
People have gotten shot on some of his jobs before. A few have died on some of his jobs before. A couple have even died _by his own hands_. He’s always been fine with that. He’s always found a way to get away with it, even if meant to get away alone.

But the kid doesn’t know that. He didn’t know that when Flint had kneeled by him, blood soaking his jeans, and he had clinged to the hem of Flint’s sweater and whispered _help me_ in the smallest, most wretched voice. So Flint had signaled Rackham, and they had stumbled their way through the escape plan, and there had been smoke, so much smoke, and the burning pain in his shoulder, and his back screaming _you’re too old for this shit_.

He turns his head. Silver passed out again.

 

* * *

  
“It’s the last day of the year.”

Flint doesn’t answer.

“Do you think I’ll make it to sunrise ?”

The engine is loud enough that he can pretend he did not hear.

 

* * *

 

Finally, _finally_ the dusty road and the sun-painted rocks give way to lampposts and signs and traffic lights, and Flint tells Silver to lie down in case someone sees him. They are nearly there. They can _make it_.

A man in a Prius stares at him at a stoplight. He suddenly wishes he had stolen a less conspicuous car than this big, black, rusty monstrosity - but he’s never been a good car thief, and there had been a bleeding kid and _no time_.

 

“Can we… can we stop ?”

He turns, tries to avoid swerving.

“What ?!”

Silver is lying down, even paler than before, sweat clinging to his brow. His face is very calm, in a terrifying way.

“I just want to watch the sunset.”

Flint feels his face contorting into a painful smile. He thinks he’s about to pass out himself.

“Sure. Sure.  Anything you want. Just… just hold on a minute.”

He takes a sharp left, crossing the opposite lane, and stops them in an empty parking lot in front of a bland beige building. The brakes have barely stopped screeching but he’s already thrown his door open, stumbled out, and made his way around the front of the car.

He fumbles with the rear handle and the door slides open, excruciatingly slow.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, while cradling the kid’s head in his palms, holding him up so he can sit, halfway on the seat and halfway out of the car. Silver sobs and twists, laying his head on Flint’s thigh so he can see the horizon.

“I’m sorry,” Flint says again, caressing the kid’s matted hair.

There’s no answer.

The small chrome star that sits crooked at the end of the hood shines, like gold in the evening light.

 

 

The last thing Flint hears is the doors of the clinic slamming open.  


  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. This was supposed to be standalone but you guys made it a series I guess ?  
> [I'm also Marginson on tumblr](https://marginson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
